First light, and the starlings name themselves
one by one,
wind swelling like an ocean, leaf to dagger-pointed leaf
through the willow, river birch casting forked
shadows beneath the heat.
Everything but me seems to have its instruction: the hare
shuffling through the
brush to its burrow, noseeums rising
in droves, each slat of the venetian blinds an intonation of light.
this is where I keep my allegiances,
in this room of no sleep so thick with silence
that it claims its own configuration,
that thin cord of luminance beneath my bedroom door
a stropped edge of steel;
image the window holds most clear when I look through it,
my face afloat in the glass—
image imposed on our backyard,
another false image
floating freely on the reflection of the waking world.